


just another saturday night

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Dirty Talk, Fluff, M/M, Military Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: John Watson didn't bring people home from the bar. Thanks to his night terrors, he was guaranteed to either get violent or wake up completely drenched in sweat; neither of which were ideal in a bed partner. There was also the fact that his miserable bedsit barely had enough room to accommodate him, let alone anyone else.But that was before he met Sherlock.





	just another saturday night

The first time John had staggered his way inside, he genuinely hadn't been aware it was a gay bar. It had taken him longer than it should have to clue in considering the disproportionately high number of same-sex couples gyrating against each other, but he didn't pretend to be the most observant person. Not that gay bars bothered him, of course. It might have fazed him a good decade or so prior, but he'd long since come to terms with his bisexuality. It was fine. He may not feel the need to broadcast his attraction to blokes, or to inform his parents, but it was all fine. 

And no matter what kind of bar it was, the atmosphere was pleasant. The music was loud, but not deafening, the bartender had a generous pour, and it was within walking (or limping) distance of his sorry excuse for a flat. There was another reason he continued to frequent the bar, but it wasn't one he would ever admit aloud. 

Every Saturday night the hottest specimen John had ever laid eyes on would stride through the doors to the bar. The man's legs seemed to go on for miles, and his trousers were practically indecent. They left nothing to the imagination, hugging the tight curve of his pert arse. John had fantasized an embarrassing number of times about giving that arse a good squeeze.

The first time he'd laid eyes on him, a sharp burst of lust had lanced through him, as swift and relentless as a bullet to the shoulder. And that was coming from personal experience. John wanted nothing more than to see that body surrendering itself to him, to have those impossibly long legs spread for him. 

He wasn't the only one to notice the sharp cut of those cheekbones and that lithe body. Heads swiveled whenever the man strutted by. There was something magnetic about the liquid grace with which he moved. It was a marvel anyone in the bar was able to get lucky with him as competition. 

Perhaps that was why John was so surprised when a fair-haired man approached the booth he was currently occupying.

"Is this seat taken?" the man asked. His voice was soft, with a Nordic lilt to it. He held two glasses in his hands, one presumably for himself, and the other unmistakably for John. 

Oh. This was not going to end well.

John's main impetus for frequenting bars was the distraction it provided. The clangor of loud music and raucous voices and the tang of alcohol were all distractions from the sounds of gunfire in his head. Appreciating attractive blokes from afar was one thing, but actually meeting someone wasn't his intended goal. 

Thanks to his night terrors, he was guaranteed to either get violent or wake up completely drenched in sweat, neither of which were ideal in a bed partner. And he couldn't exactly bring anyone back to his place. The miserable bedsit barely had enough room to accommodate him, and the last thing he wanted was a pity fuck. 

Still, the man looked so earnest and hopeful. John really didn't have the mettle to turn him away and spare the both of them what was guaranteed to be a great waste of time. 

"No, not at all," he managed belatedly. He shuffled sideways, making room on the pleather seat. 

"I've seen you here before," the man commented shyly, placing the scotch in front of him. 

Ah, what the hell. What was wrong with a little harmless flirting? It was a good self-esteem boost, and if they started to slide into dangerous territory, John could always invent some sort of excuse to hightail it out of there. He accepted the drink with a somewhat forced smile. "I usually stop by after work." 

"What do you do for work?" the man asked. 

"Ah, just locum work at St. Bart's. Nothing steady at the moment." 

"You're a doctor? Makes me look so dull." John watched him take a small sip from his drink. "I work in financial management."

_Dull indeed,_ John thought. Thankfully he was sober enough that he still had control over his mouth. Time to divert the conversation before it got awkward. "I'm John, by the way." 

He wasn't sure if the colour in the man's cheeks was from alcohol or from embarrassment. "Oh! I-I'm sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Farley. I should've started with that." 

"It's fine," John assured him. He took another sip of his drink, but almost spat it out a moment later. 

A long shadow fell over their booth. _"John Watson."_

Standing in front of him was the very man he'd spent countless nights wanking to. He couldn't think of a single reason why he was here now, or how he knew his name, or, better yet, why he was saying it with familiarity. 

“Oh, do you two know each other?” 

“I was just wondering that myself.” John raised his brows expectantly. 

"Not yet," tall dark and sexy answered.

Figured that his voice was as sensual as the rest of him. He really did belong on the front cover of a magazine; not languishing in some dimly lit bar. 

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man’s lips twitched into a smirk. John hadn’t been afforded the chance to see his mouth up close before now. The man had full lips with a pronounced cupid’s bow, and they looked ridiculously soft. He must’ve applied chapstick every hour. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and I’m the one you’re going home with tonight.”

For a minute, John could only stare, wondering if he’d somehow misheard, but no, the timid bloke beside him looked just as incredulous. Sherlock's cocky smirk and self-assured voice rankled John. What was that saying? Never meet your heroes? Or, in this case, never meet the subject of your sexual fantasies. “Right,” John managed, “ta for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked. For someone who’d just been rejected, he looked horribly smug.

John’s patience thinned. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to enjoy a drink with my friend Frank.” 

“Farley,” the man corrected timidly.

Sherlock’s smile grew like a cat that got the cream. “Yes, well, I’m sure _Farley_ would better enjoy a drink with the young man in the grey trousers,” he flicked his head to the left. “He’d be much better matched sexually by him than you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” John challenged in his best military tone, every syllable tight and clipped. His posture had straightened too, all of his mannerisms practically oozing authority. 

“You’re much too intense for poor Farley,” Sherlock continued, as if the man wasn’t present. “He’d never be able to handle you.” 

“Like you would,” John snorted. 

Sherlock’s smug grin never faltered. “I think you’ll find I can take everything you have to give and more.” 

Alright. John could play his game. He braced his elbows on the table, leaning forward and pitching his voice lower. “That so?” he asked, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

Sherlock didn’t have an answer equipped for that. His eyes widened fractionally, and John could hear his breathing hitch even as he tried to hide it. “Yes,” he answered belatedly. 

“Mm,” John took a long swig of his drink. “Too bad I’m not interested.” 

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. John watched with mild amusement as he struggled to regain his composure. “Don’t be tedious. Playing hard to get is so pedestrian.”

“Who says I’m playing?” 

“You did. That first night I caught you eye-fucking me.” 

“There’s a big difference between eye-fucking someone and judging them from afar.” 

“I think I’ll just go,” Frank—shit, no _Farley_ —murmured. 

“You don’t have to,” John assured him. “Really, Sherlock was just leaving.” 

“No, it’s, I have a meeting early tomorrow. I really should be going.” 

John watched helplessly as the man clumsily slid out from the booth and made a quick departure from the bar. Poor bloke. He’d been so nervous approaching John, too. He stared after him for a few seconds, before rounding on Sherlock. “You’re a real prick,” he informed him. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Not yet.”

Jesus. He shook his head, draining the rest of his scotch. He really needed another drink. 

“You’re a right piece of work, you know that?" John set his glass down, before licking the last drop of alcohol from his lips. Sherlock's eyes seemed glued to the movement of John's tongue. "You could’ve approached me any other night, but no, you had to wait until someone else had actually shown a bit of interest in me. Can’t handle that not everyone’s eyes are on you?” 

“I could care less,” Sherlock dismissed, though they both knew that wasn’t true. He reveled in the attention. “I didn’t like how he looked at you. And is that really what you want? A mousy pen pusher like him? You need someone who can match you. You're an adrenaline addict. You get off on danger.” 

“You don’t know shit about me.” John fumbled for his cane before clambering to his feet. Screw it. He was getting another drink. He started to make for the bar counter, but Sherlock’s hand clamped around his wrist, holding him back. Those were... _really_ nice fingers. Long and slender, and shaped by prominent phalange bones. For a dangerous second John imagined them wrapping around something else. 

Sherlock leaned down so his mouth was level with John’s ear. His breath was warm, tickling the short strands of John's hair. “I know you better than anyone else in this bar.” 

“Yeah?" his breathing was admittedly less steady than he'd like. "Prove it.” 

Sherlock clearly wasn't one to back down from a challenge. “You’re an army doctor, recently invalided home from… either Iraq or Afghanistan, I can’t be sure which. You have a brother who’s an alcoholic. His sexual deviancy was not taken well by your parents, hence why you remained in the closet for so long. That first night, you were surprised to see so many same-sex couples, which means you didn’t realize this was a gay bar. You don’t actively seek out relationships with other men, but if someone shows an interest in you, you’re not quick to turn them down, either.”

John was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. How in God’s name had he known any of that? Even if he was some sort of stalker, there was no way he could have gleaned that information. It wasn't like John kept a diary lying about his flat. 

“These past couple weeks you’ve admired a few men, and even chatted up a bisexual woman, but the only one you really want is me. The first night when you went home alone, you touched yourself thinking about me. My hands or lips wrapped around your cock. Or maybe you thought about my arse.”

John's breathing came in short staggering bursts. Shit. _Shit!_ What was he supposed to say to all that? How had Sherlock known? “You can’t have known any of that.”

“Impressive, isn’t it? I deduced all of that from your appearance and mannerisms.”

“Just like how you deduced my name?”

“No, I paid the bartender to ask to see your ID, and then tell me all your credentials.”

“That’s how you knew I was in the army.” 

“Oh no, I could tell that from your haircut and stance.” 

“Well, you’re certainly resourceful, I’ll give you that.” John laughed again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Instead of preening like John expected him to, Sherlock actually blushed. Interesting. He looked good with a bit of colour to his cheeks.

“Why me?” John wondered. “Out of everyone in this bar?”

Sherlock raised a single shoulder in a half-shrug. “All the nice girls like a soldier, don’t they?”

“It’s sailor,” John corrected. “The saying, it’s not…” his voice trailed off. Suddenly Sherlock was a lot closer than he had been. 

“I find you interesting,” Sherlock said simply.

“Really.” 

Sherlock looked down. His lashes cast long shadows over the angular planes of his face. “I want you to take me apart. I want you to make me scream.” 

John’s nostrils flared. He had to swallow several times before he could speak. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll be too hard to do,” he managed with feigned nonchalance. 

Sherlock's gaze darted down to the tent beginning to form in John's pants. "Still not interested?" he challenged. 

John shrugged as casually as possible. "I reckon I haven't anything better to do tonight." 

"No _one_ better," Sherlock corrected. 

"Yes, alright, you're gorgeous. What more do you want me to say?" 

"You think I'm gorgeous?" 

"Like you didn't already know," John scoffed. 

"Oh, I did, but it's nice to get confirmation." 

What a prat. Someone needed to put him in his place, and John was eager to oblige. "Fine, but we're going to your place." 

"Why not—" Sherlock cut himself off. "Oh, I see. You're insecure about your flat. It's probably just a bedsit. I don't expect you can afford much better with your army pension, and they'd never reinstate you as a surgeon due to the intermittent tremor in your hand. It's not present now, but I've noticed it in the past."

"You know what, I've changed my mind." John set his gaze back on the corner booth. 

"Fine!" Sherlock said quickly. "We can go to my place. And I'll pay for the cab." After a stretch of silence, Sherlock huffed, "well?" 

"Sorry, I was just waiting to see what else you'd bribe me with," John teased. "Yes, fine. Your place it is." 

Sherlock turned on his heel without another word. John had to jog to catch up to his long-legged strides, which was made especially difficult with his cane. "Eager, are we?" John called after him. 

"Yes." 

Oh. Not even pretending at being coy. That was interesting. By the time John reached him, Sherlock had already hailed a cab. 

Sherlock was on him almost the second they slid into the backseats. "221B Baker Street," Sherlock barked at the cab-driver, before continuing to paw at John's clothes. His hands slid under John's shirt, mapping out the contours of his stomach, before brushing against a nipple. 

“Oi,” the cabbie interrupted. “I’ve just had the seats cleaned.” 

They reluctantly disentangled themselves, but not before Sherlock whispered into his ear. "Want to know a secret?" 

_What are we, thirteen?_ John wanted to ask, but he kept silent. 

"That first night, when you touched yourself thinking of me, I did the same." 

"You also thought of yourself?" John quipped, sotto voce. 

Sherlock's nose scrunched in annoyance. "I thought of you forcing me to my knees and shoving your cock down my throat." 

John's mouth went dry. He really had no idea what to say to that, though the state of his trousers probably spoke for him. Sherlock continued to stare at him for the duration of the cab ride, his molten gaze searing into his skin. When they finally arrived outside a shop reading 'Speedy's Cafe,' Sherlock flung a wad of bills at the driver before disembarking from the cab. John hurried after him. 

His heart pounded against his sternum as Sherlock led him inside. It was only as they were mounting the steps to 221B that it occurred to him what a monumentally bad idea this was. He was going to regret this, he was sure, but the copious amounts of alcohol in his system disagreed. 

"I apologize," Sherlock cleared his throat, neatly divesting himself of his coat. "It's a bit of a mess." 

John swiveled to take in the entirety of the flat. The sitting room was large and rather cluttered, complete with a fireplace and a mantlepiece. A yellow smiley face was painted on the wall, and seemed to be surrounded by... bullet holes? Just what kind of madman had John gone home with? 

"Hang on, is that a human skull?" John asked. "That is. That's a human skull." 

"Impressive observation," Sherlock sighed.

"And why is the entrance to your kitchen blocked with caution tape?" 

"That's so my landlady doesn't wreck my mould cultures," he explained shortly. "I hope you didn't come here for a tour of the flat?" 

It was John's turn to smirk. "Yes, actually, and I reckon we can start with your bedroom?" 

Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Um, yes, good." 

John's smirk only widened. Where had all that earlier bravado gone? He couldn't decide what he found more appealing--a sexy, confident Sherlock, or a bashful, flustered one. Both had their merits. By the time they reached the bedroom, Sherlock had composed himself, and any traces of colour were gone from his face. 

Sex always came with a bit of awkwardness, but before John could ask how he wanted to do this, or what his preferences were, Sherlock had pushed him back against the door, and was proceeding to snog the hell out of him. 

Christ, his lips were as soft as they looked. Their mouths slid together, lips parting and dragging in a sensual glide. 

And it was nice, but John really wasn't one to be pushed around.

He buried a hand in Sherlock's fractious mess of dark hair and roughly maneuvered them so that Sherlock's back was to the door. Sherlock's eyes were wide and startled by the abrupt change, but John was too busy admiring his lips to pay notice. They were already red and swollen from being thoroughly kissed. Sherlock's tongue darted out to lick his lips, tracing the path John's mouth had just followed. 

“Shit, you're gorgeous.”

Sherlock's breathing was already unsteady, and his voice seemed even deeper than before. “Mm, I know. Were you only realizing now?”

There was something about the combination of Sherlock's dry humour and deadpan voice that made laughter bubble up in John's chest. “Fuck you,” he said, without any real heat. 

“I would hope so,” Sherlock rumbled. 

John twined his fingers back in those dark curls hair, yanking Sherlock's head to the side so he could lick along the hinge of his jaw. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as John dragged his teeth over the long lines of his throat. His skin was smooth and pale and unblemished, and all John could imagine was leaving a couple marks behind, lasting evidence of their night together. He latched onto the tender skin on the underside of Sherlock's jaw and sucked hard. Sherlock gasped, his hands affixing to John's shoulders and digging in as he continued to suck. John ran his teeth over the tender area, and once he was satisfied with the bruise he'd sucked, his lips migrated to Sherlock's clavicle, briefly dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat. 

Sherlock's chest heaved for breath. "A-at this rate, I'm not sure we'll make it to the bed." His voice was almost an entire octave lower than before. It sounded positively sinful, enough to put the devil to shame.

John detached his lips from Sherlock's throat, and the brunette immediately took the opportunity to remove his shirt. 

John watched silently as Sherlock's shirt pooled to the floor, before skating his eyes along the newly revealed flesh. Sherlock was slim and lithe—the trim body of a dancer. His hipbones were angled perfection, and they drew perfect attention to the dark trail of hair leading to his still clothed cock. 

As much as John wanted to touch and explore, he was also content with staring at the chiseled, almost too-thin frame. He made a mental note to insist Sherlock have a post-sex snack. He looked like he could use the extra calories. 

John's thoughts fizzled out when Sherlock stepped forward, curling his fingers in the fabric of John's shirt. A frisson of panic catapulted through him. John batted his hands away before he was even aware of what he was doing. "My shirt stays on,” he insisted. His voice sounded slightly hysterical even to his own ears. 

Damn. That was precisely why he didn't shag people he met at the bar. Or anyone at all, really. He was bound to make a fool of himself. 

Sherlock's lower lip jutted out. “But-”

“It's non-negotiable," John said regretfully, even as his shoulder started to twinge with phantom pain. "You can put yours back on if you want.” He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock wanted to stop altogether. 

“Oh, I see." His eyes studied him with silent intensity. "You're worried your scars will affect my perception of you. You needn't worry. I've seen scarring before. Mostly on corpses, but nothing you have will surprise me.” 

“No,” John said quietly, his throat starting to tighten. Sherlock didn't seem the sort to accept not getting his way, but this wasn't something John could just—

“Fine.”

“Fine?” John echoed.

“Yes, yes it's all fine.” Sherlock's eyes darted over his face, noting his evident relief. “It's fortunate you were shot on your upper half. I'm not sure how we'd do this if you had insisted on keeping your pants on.” 

That startled a laugh out of John. “My god, you are such a tit.” 

Sherlock smiled softly, and it occurred to John that the comment might've been for his benefit. Sherlock was trying to break the tension, and keep him from dwelling on what was a rather embarrassing reaction on his part. 

"Don't do that," Sherlock chided. 

"Er, what?" 

“You’re psyching yourself out,” Sherlock commented, tilting his head to the side. "You're concerned about your sexual performance." 

“I am not!” John refuted, louder than necessary. He was no blushing virgin. One didn’t earn the moniker “Three Continents” for nothing.

“You’re worried you’re going to have trouble remaining aroused,” Sherlock elaborated. “It’s a common issue in veterans. Over eighty percent report some type of sexual dysfunction. But I can assure you, that won’t be the issue.” Sherlock’s voice softened. “And if it were, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah?” John laughed. “You seem like the judgiest arse out there.”

“I wouldn’t judge you. Not over something like that.” There was a disarming quality to his voice, an honesty that couldn’t be fabricated.

John’s shoulders relaxed. That was... actually really sweet. 

“Besides, you had no difficulty getting off two nights ago, didn't you? While thinking about me,” the self-satisfied prig added. 

“How could you possibly have known that?” 

Sherlock flashed him a grin. “Get on the bed and kiss me, John.”

John followed him obediently, and their lips collided together once more in a searing battle of wills. Sherlock tentatively pressed his tongue to the seam of John's lips and, at the grant of his access, delved inside his mouth. Their tongues curled and flicked against each other, first tentative, then with confidence. Their breath flowed hot in the shared space between their mouths. John could hardly believe this was real, that he was in bed kissing the man he'd fantasized about, and that his attraction was reciprocated. 

For the most part, Sherlock seemed content with letting John take control of the kiss. John tilted his head, adjusting the angle in order to deepen the movements of their mouths. And then, because he'd fantasized about it countless times, he slid his hands down to finally seize a handful of Sherlock’s arse. John's fingers sunk into the soft skin. He kneaded the rounded flesh, before giving it a firm squeeze. His arse felt amazing. Plump and firm, and he couldn't imagine how much better it would feel without the barrier of fabric in the way. 

Sherlock broke the kiss to suck in a deep lungful of air, before letting it out in one long moan.

"Off," John ordered. The sound of Sherlock's moan made his cock throb. "Take these off." He wanted to feel his bare skin. 

Sherlock scrambled to obey. "You too," he insisted. 

"You're ordering me around?" John grinned. "That's cute." Nonetheless, he complied, stripping out of his trousers and pants as quickly as he could. He felt rather stupid keeping his shirt on, but the idea of revealing the ugly, knotted mass of scar tissue on his shoulder made his stomach queasy. Maybe if they turned the lights off it wouldn't be an issue, but he wanted to be able to examine and catalogue every inch of Sherlock's bare flesh. He wanted to see all of his reactions, to watch those beautiful pale eyes darken with arousal and lust, and to flutter shut when it all became too much. 

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. There was an almost reverent quality to his hushed tone. John felt the weight of Sherlock’s gaze rake over him, before his eyes came to a stop at John's painfully hard cock. He stared completely unabashed, his lips falling open. His reaction was rather flattering, actually. 

John's eyes in turn trained on Sherlock's length. It was flushed red and straining towards him. "Yours isn't too bad either." 

"I hadn't deduced... It's thicker than I imagined." 

"Hope that's not a problem." John licked his lips. "We never did talk about—"

Sherlock leaned forward to nip at his lips, effectively silencing him. "Unnecessary. You're going to fuck me." 

His mouth flooded with saliva. "No objections there."

John's mouth traveled lower than it had before, coming to a stop just above Sherlock's nipple. He exhaled against his skin, and Sherlock arched upwards, the tendons in his long neck flexing. John wet his lips with his tongue before circling the peaked bud of Sherlock's nipples. Sherlock let out a grunt at the sensation. It became increasingly difficult not to smirk at the sounds escaping Sherlock. He was rather vocal, though John suspected he was trying his hardest to remain quiet. 

Sherlock let out an almost theatrical gasp when John began laving his nipples with his tongue. From his squirming, John wagered he was really sensitive. He tested his theory by sucking at one of his nipples, and twisting the other with his finger. 

"Mmf!" Now it was Sherlock's turn to wrap his hands in John's hair, though it was difficult for him to get a good grip on the much shorter strands. 

With a final hard suck, John pulled back to admire the now glistening pink flesh. He blew air over the slightly swollen nipple, and Sherlock immediately hissed out a breath, clinging onto his hair for dear life. 

"John. John, please." His hips jumped in a desperate plea for friction. 

John ignored him for the moment, neglecting his cock in lieu of sucking on his other nipple. Sherlock's chest rose rapidly beneath his mouth. 

"Please," Sherlock whimpered again. 

"Please what?" 

"T-touch me." 

John huffed a laugh against his skin. "I'm already touching you," he pointed out, tracing his thumb across a spit-slicked nipple. 

_"John!"_ his voice rose to a wail.

A thrill of power jolted through John at the sound. He could get used to hearing that rich tenor crying out. Sherlock would make a killing in the porn industry. Or even working a sex hotline. As tempting as it was, he didn't think he'd be able to torture Sherlock for much longer. Not when his own cock was positively aching. Without further delay, he aligned their hips, and they immediately began undulating against each other. _Shit._ It had really been too long. He'd almost forgotten how good it felt to have the hard press of another cock against his own.

While they writhed against each other, he fumbled for the container of lube beside Sherlock's bed. He trailed a slick finger down the cleft of Sherlock's arse, rubbing and massaging along his entrance, and pressing gently on his perineum. Once the tight muscle was suitably relaxed, he dipped a single finger inside. Sherlock gasped at the sensation and wriggled slightly. 

"Alright?" John asked. 

Sherlock mumbled an unintelligible response. John eased his finger in and out, before starting to pump it with faster movements. As soon as he felt it start to loosen, he slowly slid a second digit inside the tight throbbing heat. 

"Hurry up," Sherlock commanded, his chest shuddering on silent sobs. 

He added a third finger, driving them in and out of his hole. The image of Sherlock writhing, impaled on his fingers just about did him in. He felt a smear of precum dribble out at the idea of replacing his fingers with his cock. 

“Condoms,” he groaned, slowly withdrawing his fingers. 

Sherlock shuddered at the sudden emptiness. “Don’t bother,” he demurred. 

John ignored him. “Condoms, or I can finish you off with just my hand.” As badly as he wanted to be inside him, the thought of fingering Sherlock until he came had its merits too. 

“We’re both clean.”

“You can’t know that.”

“You’re a doctor," he sucked in a breath. "You make sure to go for routine checkups. And you were tested after arriving back in London, and you haven’t had unprotected sex with anyone since then. I’m clean too. My brother insisted on having me tested after...” Sherlock’s voice petered out. 

_After what?_ John wanted to ask, but unlike Sherlock, he knew when not to pry.

"The point is," Sherlock continued, "I haven't had any sexual encounters since the last time I was tested and I already know you're clean." 

"Do you have," he faltered. Was there a polite way to say this? "Your test results on paper?" 

"They're somewhere in the flat," Sherlock huffed. 

With how messy it was, he doubted they'd have much luck finding it. “Condoms,” John repeated firmly, though not unkindly. 

“But I want to feel you,” Sherlock whinged. John closed his eyes, his resolve crumbling. Time for a different tactic.

“You think you deserve that,” John asked, his voice going a deadly sort of soft. “For me to fill you up with my come? I don’t think so.” 

Sherlock’s cock twitched against his own.

“Maybe after you earn it. Take my cock nicely this time and maybe I’ll reward you.”

Sherlock groaned. His eyes were all pupil. “Fine. That. Yes, condoms. Middle drawer.”

Already inarticulate, John mused, and he wasn’t even inside him yet. He retrieved a box of condoms from the middle drawer, and worked the thin latex over himself. 

_“Hurry up!”_

Normally John would be annoyed, but Sherlock sounded so desperate, his chest heaving for breath. Fuck. He was practically gagging for it. John slicked himself with lube and lined their hips up. Sherlock tried to wiggle his hips back, but John stopped him a smack to his arse. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. 

"Liked that, did you?" 

His only answer was a high-pitched whimper. 

“Shame I didn’t have you when I was in Afghanistan. I could’ve left you tied up and waiting for me in my rooms for when I got back from my rounds. Maybe left you with a vibrator while I was gone.” 

Sherlock's breathing devolved into a series of gasps and whines. Arousal slammed through John. 

“Mm, and a cock ring too. I don’t think you deserve to come without my say so, do you?” He pinched his arse. “I asked you a question.” 

“N-no,” he whimpered. 

"No you don't want that?" 

"I do! John, I do. Please." Sherlock's hips hiccuped in anticipation. As much as John enjoyed teasing him, he didn't have the willpower to deny himself any longer. Gripping Sherlock's waist, John snapped his hips forwards, plunging into him in one hard thrust. 

Once his bollocks were flush against Sherlock's arse he paused, allowing him to adjust to the intrusion. Sherlock's body was tight and hot all around him. Fuck, he felt amazing. "Can I—"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. His eyes were squeezed shut, and John could make out tears clinging to his lashes. 

He fought the animal impulse to fuck into Sherlock as hard and fast as he could, instead letting his caretaker instincts take over. He cupped Sherlock's cheek with a shaking palm, dragging his thumb across his cheekbone in a gentle caress. "Are you sure...?" 

"You feel _huge_ ," Sherlock's voice was little more than a whimper. "But don't stop. I need it. Need you." 

John started with slow, shallow thrusts. His eyes latched onto Sherlock's face, noting the tension present in his expression. Gradually, his shoulders lowered and his body began to relax. John waited until he was suitably relaxed before he began twisting his hips and grinding his length as deep as it could go. Sherlock immediately shoved his hips back, greedy for more. John increased his thrusts, setting a vicious, punishing pace that was spurred on by the cries Sherlock failed to stifle. He thrust into him hard, aiming for that one particular spot each time. He'd given enough prostate exams during his career to not have much difficulty in locating Sherlock's. It was extremely apparent when his cock finally did drag along that tiny node. 

Sherlock threw his head back, baring his long, pale neck and letting out a pornographic moan. "John," his voice was pained, as if he'd taken a punch to the solar plexus. 

"I know," he grunted. Sweat beaded along his hairline as he pounded into him. _I know exactly what you need._

Sherlock's moans were timed to the harsh movements of his hips. John knew neither of them were going to last much longer. 

It had been so long. It wasn't just the act itself John missed, but the physical closeness of another human being. The needy gasps and groans flowing from Sherlock's lips, the rhythmic clenching of his body around John's cock, the twin pounding of their heartbeats. He missed this. It was like an ache resting beneath his skin that he hadn't been aware of until now. John had the irresistible urge to lean up and kiss Sherlock, but he also didn't have the willpower to pause in his thrusting.

John could tell the precise moment when Sherlock started to come. His body clamped like a vise around John's cock, squeezing him almost to the point of pain. John slammed his hips forwards, burying himself to the root as Sherlock spasmed around him. Sherlock let out a long, loud, rippling moan. Come spurted out of his cock, shooting up and hitting his belly and chin. 

The sight just about did John in. Pleasure crescendoed into a wave of blinding white. His hips thrust erratically, his fingers digging into Sherlock's hips with bruising force before he finally spilled into the condom. 

John's mind was wiped clean by a haze of endorphins. It took him a long moment before he was able to come back to himself. 

Small aftershocks vibrated out across their limbs as John pulled out before disposing the condom. His limbs felt gelatinous, and he doubted Sherlock had the energy just yet to procure a flannel from the loo. He carelessly pulled his shirt over his head and used it to clean up the mess of come dripping down Sherlock's bare chest. He could always do laundry tomorrow, but for now it was far too tempting to simply collapse back against the mattress. 

"John?" Sherlock said softly. 

"Mm?" he made a small questioning noise. 

Sherlock hesitated before shuffling closer, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear. "Your limp's psychosomatic." 

John turned his head, huffing a laugh into Sherlock's sweaty curls. "Not too good at pillow talk, are you?" 

"You forgot your cane in the cab. You don't need it." 

Shit. Had he really? He hadn't even noticed. "Right, well, last I checked, I'm the doctor here, not you." John paused. He realized he wasn't actually aware of Sherlock's profession. 

"Consulting detective."

"Pardon?"

"You're wondering what I do for work. I'm a consulting detective. And while you are correct in that you are the doctor here, I think I've already proved I'm of above average intelligence." 

If that wasn't an understatement. "Alright," John conceded, "but knowing my limp's psychosomatic doesn't just make it go away. It's not that simple." 

"It seems simple to me." 

"Of course it does," he sighed. 

"You are addicted to adrenaline. You thrive in a high-stress environment. Your limp isn't present when you're excited. Even back at the bar, you continued to rely on your cane, but it just got in the way. You didn't need it." 

John was still too blissed out to argue. "Yes, fine," he dismissed. No point in arguing with the most stubborn wanker he'd encountered since, well, _ever._ John's eyelids began to droop, his body fading into lassitude. He felt himself start to doze off, and that awareness caused him to bolt upright. _Too close, Watson,_ he chided himself. Way too close. 

John missed the closeness, the intimacy of hugging another body against his own. He missed falling asleep with someone in his arms, missed the sound of another's breathing lulling him to sleep. He wanted to stay. He also knew better than to trust himself.

He cleared his throat. "I should go."

“Don't.”

Shit. Hearing that should not have made him feel relieved. This was a bloody one-night stand. Nothing more. 

“Cab fare’s gone up since your deployment," Sherlock continued. "We both know you can’t afford it.” 

John swallowed tightly. “I can’t sleep beside other people. The last time, I panicked and it didn’t go well.”

“I know.” Sherlock tilted his head. “You’re welcome to the couch, but I wouldn’t advise it considering I haven’t cleaned up the latest chemical spill. Sleep here tonight.”

“But you—”

“There’s another bedroom upstairs.” 

“Oh, well, if you're sure. I-I'll take that one,” John offered, uneager to steal Sherlock’s bed from him. 

“Please, allow me, Doctor. It’s a rather steep set of stairs, and we wouldn’t want to aggravate your leg.” 

Just what was he playing at? Sherlock had already made it clear he knew John’s limp was psychosomatic. Still, John was too tired to argue. "Right," he acquiesced. "Okay." 

He watched through bleary eyes as Sherlock soundlessly slipped out of bed and left the room, without even stopping to gather his clothes. John was too tired to dwell on his guilt at taking Sherlock's bed, and he staunchly ignored the nagging voice in his head telling him to get out before he got too attached. Instead, he closed his eyes and fell asleep faster than he had in a long time. His sleep was blessedly dreamless, the cacophony of gunfire for once absent from his mind. 

  
He awoke the next morning with his nose buried in a cloud of dark curls. His hips were twisting of their own volition, grinding his interested length against the rounded arse perfectly positioned against him.

“Fuck,” John hissed, his voice gravel-rough from sleep.

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed. His voice was even deeper, which should have been impossible. 

“I thought you were going to sleep upstairs?” John groaned.

Sherlock thrust his hips back, gyrating against John’s absurdly hard cock. All they’d done was a bit of grinding and he was already leaking at the tip. 

Sherlock craned his neck to look at him. The combination of his lazily ruffled hair and heavy-lidded eyes made John's heart squeeze fondly. “I only told you that so you wouldn’t worry. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. You don’t really perceive me as a threat.”

John realized he was correct. There was something about him, some unnameable quality that made him feel safe. He only hoped it would last. Before he could come up with a response, Sherlock was twisting out of reach. John blinked dumbly, as a piece of paper was thrust in his face. 

“My test results.”

John took the paper from him. “Passed your diplomas, did you?”

“Don’t be obtuse. Now you know I’m clean, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t get to have you.” 

John cracked a grin. “Just how long did it take you to find it?”

“I didn’t. I had to make a call last night.” 

“A call?” he repeated. “Testing for STIs typically takes a week.” 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “My brother had it on file." 

"So you, what? Called him in the middle of the night?" 

"He owed me a favour.”

John laughed. “And this is what you used it on?”

“Yep.” 

“You’re mad.”

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with an answer. “I already went to the liberty of fingering myself while you were asleep.” 

“Fuck.” There was something filthy about hearing him so matter-of-fact. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I believe last night you said something about if I was good for you, you’d fill me up with your come.”

“Yeah? And what makes you think you were good?”

“You shouting my name while achieving orgasm was a fairly clear indication.” 

John snorted a laugh. 

"I was planning on sucking you off, but now I really want to ride you."

John wanted to suggest that Sherlock do both, but he doubted he'd be able to last that long. "Whatever you want is... fine," he managed. 

Sherlock wasted no time straddling John's lap. For a moment they stared at each other. Part of John wondered how this was even real. It still seemed surreal that someone as gorgeous as Sherlock would even spare a second glance at a washed up army doctor like himself. Still, he knew better than to question it. 

Sherlock coated John's cock with liberal amounts of lube, giving it a few agonizingly slow strokes. 

John's groan soon melted into a laugh when he noticed the calculating expression on Sherlock's face. Jesus, he was looking at it like it was a particularly complex math equation. "It's not going to bite, you know." 

"I'm analyzing it." 

"What?" 

"The veins on the underside, the girth and length and shape of it," Sherlock rattled off. 

"Um, why?" 

Sherlock dragged his thumb across the bead of precum at the tip, smearing the wetness across the head. "I'm trying to determine what it is about it that makes it feel so... good," he finished lamely. 

John really couldn't keep a straight face at that. "As opposed to other ones, you mean?" 

"Yes." Sherlock lifted his chin defiantly, as if daring John to mock him. 

He couldn't believe they were having this conversation. What an absolute nutter. "I can assure you, it's really nothing out of the ordinary." John had seen a great number of cocks in his lifetime, from changing in the locker rooms for rugby, to the barracks in the military. And of course, being a doctor meant he was quite well-versed in human anatomy. 

"Everything about you is a contradiction. At first glance, you look so plain and ordinary. But you're not." 

"That's... good to know," John managed weakly. 

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum. John considered asking how much longer this "analyzing" would take, but before he could, Sherlock had positioned himself over his cock and was beginning to sink down. 

John resisted the urge to let his head tip back and his eyes fall shut when he felt his cock prod that tight opening. He wanted to witness every emotion that flickered across Sherlock's face. 

"John," Sherlock gasped, his thighs trembling as he slowly sank down. "You feel so good."

"Go as slow as you need," John said, stroking the shaking muscles of his inner thigh. His fingers skated dangerously close to Sherlock's cock. John had to fight the urge to just grab Sherlock's hips and force him all the way down, to bury himself completely in that deliciously tight heat. 

It was slow-going, but finally Sherlock bottomed out. He took a moment to gasp and adjust to the feel of John's cock, and then he was rising back up and dropping down in one fluid motion.

They both let out a groan, and if John's was deep, the noise Sherlock made was positively guttural.

Sherlock splayed both of his hands across John's naked chest as he continued to ride him. His beautiful pink lips were slack, a look of pure ecstasy on his face as his body engulfed John's cock over and over. 

John could barely stand the sight of that beautiful body bobbing on his cock. His hips bucked upwards, meeting each of Sherlock's downward thrusts. He felt heat building and pooling in his abdomen. His hips started to stutter, and then he was coming, the pleasure turning incandescent. 

Sherlock groaned as if he were the one that had just come, but from the state of his flushed, leaking cock, John knew he wasn't quite there yet. Sherlock shoved his hips down fruitlessly on John's softening cock, desperately seeking relief. 

Wincing, John pulled out, oversensitive from what was one of the best orgasms he'd had in a long time. He dipped a finger along Sherlock's opening, where his come was now trickling out. 

"Feel that?" John rasped. 

Sherlock tried to push back against his finger, but he pulled away before he could. 

"John!" 

He took pity on him, wrapping a hand around his weeping prick. Sherlock keened at the touch, thrusting up into the tight circle of John’s grasp. He pumped down harshly and then up, twisting around the head. 

It only took a few more strokes before Sherlock's eyes were pinching shut. He leaned forward, burying his face in the juncture between John's shoulder and neck. He trembled in his arms, his release splattering across both of their stomachs. 

Which were both completely bare.

John's heart jolted in his chest. When did... how did he not notice? 

The ugly pink-silver flesh of his shoulder, and the exit wound beneath his clavicle were completely exposed. 

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “I—did you…?”

“I didn’t take your shirt off, John,” Sherlock said gently, immediately pinpointing the subject of his anxiety. “You did.”

Now John remembered. He took his shirt off last night and used it to clean up Sherlock’s spend. He took in a few, stuttering breaths, willing his rapid heartbeat to slow. “I suppose I was ready after all.” 

Sherlock shifted back, holding out his forearm to John. “You’re not the only one with scars.” 

For a moment, John could only stare. And then he reached forwards, touching his fingertips to the scarred skin as gently as possible. Track marks. Thankfully none of them recent. John never would have noticed their existence if Sherlock hadn’t pointed them out. "Thank you," his voice sounded hoarse. Even though he hadn't known Sherlock for long, the thought of him destroying his mind with drugs made his stomach knot with nausea. "For showing me."

Sherlock dipped his head in a stiff nod. 

They lay side-by-side, taking a few minutes to catch their breath. He was warm and content with Sherlock still pressed against his side. It was all too tempting to just close his eyes and drift off some more. 

Unfortunately he had enough self-preservation not to. 

Pushing himself upright, John cast his gaze around the room, trying to locate where he'd tossed his clothes. 

Sherlock jerked into a seating position beside him, no longer relaxed. "You don't have to leave," he said softly. 

"Well, I'm rather in need of a shower," John pointed out, gesturing at the mess of dried come on his stomach. 

"Use mine. I have spare towels." 

John had to admit the offer was tempting. And that was the problem. Sooner or later he had to leave, and prolonging the encounter was only going to make it harder. Last night was the best he'd slept in a long time. The brilliant man beside him was so many things—excitement, adrenaline, but also safety. John felt secure wrapped up in his arms. Which was ridiculous, of course. He was romanticizing meaningless sex with someone who was probably going to forget him in a manner of days. Sure, it had been rather amazing sex, but imagining a connection beyond that was going too far. John was being a complete sap. 

"I..." he hesitated. Why did he do this to himself? "Thank you. But I can't."

Sherlock's hopeful expression swept clean off his face. He looked away. "I trust you can escort yourself out." 

It felt harder to swallow than it should have. "Right," he coughed to clear his throat. That was that. "Um, take care." 

Sherlock didn't answer, and John didn't blame him. _Take care?_ Could he sound anymore awkward? 

John gathered his clothes and pulled them on as swiftly as possible. His wallet was thankfully still stowed in the back pocket of his trousers. He forced himself not to look back, but he wondered what Sherlock looked like. Would he find indifference on his face? Fondness? Irritation? John really had no clue. He kept his gaze facing forwards as he trudged towards the front door. He was so lost in his thoughts, that he nearly collided with an elderly woman on the stairs. 

"Oh, goodness!" she cried, readjusting her hold on her tea tray. 

"Sorry," John hastened to apologize. "I didn't see you." 

She gave him a once-over, taking in the rumpled state of his hair and clothes. Only now did John realize his shirt was on inside-out. Just as well since it had been used to clean up Sherlock's come the night before.

"Ah," she said with a knowing grin. "So you're the handsome young man who's got Sherlock in a tizzy." 

"Oh, no, I'm not. I was just... visiting. So. Bye." He squeezed past her, doing his best to tune out her musings of "ah, young love." 

He opted to walk home rather than take a cab. He could use a bit of exercise, and he really didn't have the money to spare for cab fare. He hoped the walk would also help him get his mind off things, but that was easier said than done.

It wasn't simply that the sex had been good. It had been, of course. Really, insanely brilliant. The issue was also Sherlock himself. He wasn't quite what John had fantasized or expected, but he was interesting. Certainly quirky, and possibly a bit mad, but he'd also been horribly endearing. There had been moments when he'd seemed so open and vulnerable. John had to wonder if his posh, arrogant demeanour was all a façade. For all that he was confident and self-assured, he was also shy and sweet. He'd called John a contradiction, but _he_ was the one who was fascinating and complex. 

Shaking his head, John forcibly exorcised Sherlock from his thoughts, refusing to think about their night together. Or their morning after. 

For the first time since leaving the bar with Sherlock, he desperately wished he had his cane with him. 

His leg ached all the way home.

 

He didn't work Sundays, and he didn't have any plans to look forward to. Every time he caught his thoughts wandering, he busied himself with some inane task. Better to dust and clean every inch of his flat than spend his time contemplating the exact colour of Sherlock's eyes, or think about the sound of his gasps and moans, or even the texture of his dark curls.

He slept horribly that night, but on Monday he at least had work to distract himself. He launched himself back into routine. 

Morning shift at work. Flirt with the cute nurse. Take a walk through Russell Square Park during lunch. Evening therapy session. Train home. Cook dinner. Watch telly. Post on his blog. Try (and fail) to sleep. 

The rest of the week panned out similarly, with the exception of Friday. After work he went out for a pint with Stamford. It wasn't at the bar he usually frequented, but it was similar enough to remind him of Sherlock. _Stop thinking about him,_ John scolded to himself when he arrived home later. _Don't think about him, and for god's sake, don't touch yourself thinking about_ him.

John told himself he wasn't going to go back to the bar. And if he was, then he wasn't going to go on Saturday, because Saturday was—for whatever reason—when Sherlock made an appearance, and he had no intention of seeing him again. 

Let it be known that John Watson was a liar. 

Saturday night he found himself sitting in his regular spot, slowly sipping a gin and tonic and agitatedly checking his watch. 9:05. Past the usual time Sherlock showed up. He either wasn't coming, or he had no intention of seeking out John's company. Which was fine. It was all fine. Completely understandable. 

John finished his drink, though he didn't have the presence of mind to even taste it. Christ, he was pathetic. Pining after someone he barely knew. He needed to get his mind off Sherlock. There were plenty of other people in the bar, and while John was rather average, he wasn't horrible to look at either. If he made the effort, he was sure it wouldn't be too difficult to find someone else looking for a bit of company. 

He dragged his eyes over the mass of people. There were a few rather decent-looking men his age, some of whom were sitting alone just as he was. The problem was, he didn't particularly want to go home with anyone else. 

John did another sweep of the bar, but this time his eyes snagged on a familiar face. He hadn't made his usual grand entrance. Instead he must have slunk in, claiming a spot at the corner. 

John's heart raced. Why was he trying to fool himself? He was already so totally gone for Sherlock. Maybe his advances would be spurned, but he wouldn't know if he didn't try. 

Feeling distinctly like a love-sick teenager, John forced his way through the crowd. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, his voice thankfully belying the anxiety he felt.

Those mercurial blue-grey-green eyes snapped up, immediately locking on his face. "Not at all," Sherlock answered coolly. That low baritone was like silk to John's ears. "Though I have to warn you, they're not half as comfortable as the ones at my flat." 

John licked his lips. "Perhaps we should go there instead, then?" 

Sherlock's cool and aloof veneer fractured. "John, while I am willing to try, I'm not very good at 'one-night stands.' Or, in this case, two-night stands." 

"Well, as it turns out, neither am I," John confessed. 

His admittance didn't seem to placate Sherlock. If anything, he only looked more confused. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean." 

"You can't deduce it?" 

Sherlock didn't so much as smile at his teasing. 

_Alright, here goes._ "I've never met anyone like you," John began. 

"Obviously," Sherlock cut in. "Most people are idiots." 

"Right, I suppose that's true." John definitely fit into the category of 'idiot' most of the time. "What I'm trying to say is, I really like you. I think you might be a bit mad, but you're fascinating and brilliant and gorgeous and also really sweet." Sherlock's nose wrinkled at his description. "Don't argue with me, because you know I'm right. Sherlock, if you're open to the idea, could I take you out for dinner? As a date?" 

"No." 

"No?" 

"It's nine-thirty. Eating late can lead to heartburn, indigestion, or even acid reflux. As a doctor, you should really know this." Sherlock paused to take in a breath, but he resumed speaking before John could get a word in edgewise. "I've been reliably informed that people often watch movies on dates. Perhaps we could do that instead? I own several documentaries on bees, if you're interested." 

John's mouth stretched into a grin so wide it made his cheeks ache. Sherlock's expression was earnest and hopeful, and as terribly cliched as it was, John swore his heart skipped a beat. "Oh god, yes."

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a really short fic smh


End file.
